The Leap Forward
by leaptad
Summary: Numb3rsQuantum Leap crossover. Sam leaps into Charlie to save a man who was innocently convicted of a crime, but he discovers that he's been leaping much longer than he thought.
1. Chapter 1

Sam was writing on a chalkboard. He took in his surroundings. First, the chalkboard itself, which was covered with equations. He turned his head to the left and saw the large, institutional windows. He continued until he was looking directly behind him. Sitting there, staring at him, were about half a dozen students, all waiting for him to do something, pens poised over notebooks.

"Oh, boy," Sam muttered. He was in the middle of teaching a class? He didn't even know the subject.

A man sitting about halfway back caught Sam's eye. He was older than the other students, probably in his mid to late thirties. He was also wearing a suit, which stood out among the other students who were dressed more casually.

He raised his chin to Sam, a gesture which meant, "You know who I am and what I'm doing here." Unfortunately, he had no idea the answer to either of those questions. He didn't even know if the man was friend or foe. Sam nodded back anyway. Might as well acknowledge him.

Then he remembered he was still in the middle of a lecture. Sam turned quickly back to the chalkboard. He perused the equations. He knew this. It was an advanced math proof. He was fairly sure he had even taught this at one point. This was definitely a high level math class, quite possibly even at a post-graduate level.

A loud bell shattered the silence and Sam jumped at the noise. The students began mercifully putting away their things. "We'll, um, continue this next time," Sam stammered, feeling obligated to say something.

The students filed out, eyeing him suspiciously. Sam put the chalk down and began stuffing papers in a nearby satchel he presumed to be his own.

"You okay, Charlie?" The man in the suit was coming towards him. There was no animosity in his demeanor. Perhaps they were friends. But, more importantly, Sam had learned that his name was Charlie. He was off to a good start. "You kind of drifted off there at the end. Having a brilliant thought?" The last sentence sounded like he was teasing, and Sam just grinned and shrugged in response.

The man snatched something from his hip, flipped it open, and held it to his ear. It was a phone, but Sam didn't remember seeing one that small before. "Eppes!" he barked.

Sam continued packing his bag. He couldn't be sure all of these papers were his, but someone would come looking for them if they weren't. It kept him busy, anyway. He picked up a notebook open to a page of familiar equations. Sam checked and, sure enough, they matched the ones on the board. These were Charlie's lecture notes. Well, this would have come in handy about 5 minutes ago. "Here's hoping the notes for the whole week are in here," he thought, glumly.

Eppes pulled the phone away from his face and covered the mouthpiece. "I'm going to take this outside," he said to Sam. "I'll meet you in your office."

Sam nodded, even though he didn't know where his office was. Eppes rushed out of the room.

Sam zipped the satchel, shouldered it, and exited out to the hallway. He saw exactly what he needed and he made a beeline for it.

"Charlie?" a female voice said.

Sam turned to see a pretty, dark-haired woman fall into step with him. She looked to be of Indian descent but she had a decidedly American accent. "Didn't you see us?" she asked.

"Us?" Sam said.

"Yeah. Larry and I." She indicated the other side of Sam and he noticed, for the first time, an older, smaller man there.

"Oh, no," Sam said with a strained smile. "I didn't. Distracted, I guess."

"Not so distracted that you forgot my equations, I hope" Larry said, sounding alarmed. He was looking eagerly at the satchel. Sam opened it wide enough for him to see in. "Here we go!" Larry said, plucking out a folder labeled L. Fleinhardt.

Larry Fleinhardt. When Sam had started leaping, he had lost large portions of his memory. The details of his own life were sketchy. But somewhere, in the swiss cheese that was his brain, he knew that name. Well, he had worked with a lot of people over the years. the must have been a Fleinhardt somewhere along the line.

"Where are you going?" the woman asked Sam. Fleinhardt was pouring over the contents of the folder, obviously quite happy with what he saw.

Sam pointed. "Men's room. Then I have to meet Eppes in my office."

She looked stunned. Even Larry looked up from his equations Sam was aware that he had just said something very, very wrong. "What?" she asked. Larry and her exchanged glances. "Since when you do call Don, Eppes?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "Umm, I have to go," he said quickly and ducked into the bathroom.

That hadn't exactly gone well. But there were more important matters at hand. Sam walked over to the mirror. He saw a man. Late twenties to early thirties. His most striking feature was a mane of dark, curly hair. He was somewhat shorter than Sam, dressed in casual attire that was not much different from what the students wore. A large nose, dark eyes. Not bad looking.

Sam checked his hip pocket and found a wallet. Suspiciously absent was a driver's license, although he did find a driving permit. Charlie Eppes. No wonder the girl had acted to strangely when he called the other man, Don, Eppes. They shared a last name. Brothers, probably.

He quickly scanned the permit and stopped dead on the issue date. He stared at the numbers for a long time, willing them to change, but they refused. April 15, 2006. It made no sense. He had started leaping in 1995. How could a driver's permit be issued in the future? He looked at Charlie's birth date. It was listed as 1975, which would make him 31 in 2006, but still. And that niggling feeling that he knew the name Larry Fleinhardt was now jumping up and down screaming. Fleinhardt and Eppes. They were linked in his mind like Abbot and Costello, Arm and Hammer. A matched set. Had he worked with them on Quantum Leap?

And then the answer came crashing down. He remembered. It was such a strange and glorious feeling to once more have a past. Larry had consulted on the Quantum Leap project, under the guise of it being a cosmology experiment, since he was known in the physics community as a top string guy. And then the math had gotten complex and it became apparent that it was going way over everyone's head. So Fleinhardt had called in some whiz kid genius that he had in class. This was, what? 1994? That sounded right. And the kid had come through, not just producing mathematical theories that blew everyone away, but seeing right through their cosmology ploy and figuring out they were talking time travel. Whether the kid had ever told Fleinhardt what they were up to, Sam had no idea.

"Charlie Eppes," Sam thought, staring into the mirror. Profound genius. This was going to be interesting. He ran his fingers through Charlie's hair.

Through the use of a posted directory, Sam managed to find his office. Not surprisingly, it was in the math department. It was a large, cluttered space filled with all sorts of trinkets to endlessly fascinate Charlie's ever-hungry mind.

If you ever get bored, Sam thought, you should try leaping.

Don was standing there munching on candy out of a large bowl on Charlie's desk. Although taller, older, and more muscular than Charlie, Sam could see that the two must be brothers. The family resemblance was striking.

The two men greeted each other. Sam moved behind his desk and began to straighten papers. He didn't think this desk had been cleaned off in weeks. The display on Charlie's cell phone had revealed the date to be September 11. Term must have started fairly recently so all this clutter had accumulated in a very short period of time. Which led Sam to one conclusion. Charlie was a slob.

"I've got a case for you," Don said. He dusted the candy from his hands and gave Sam a thick file with FBI printed on it in at least five places. Sam noted that he had inhaled half the bowl of chocolates.

Sam took the file. Why was a college professor reviewing an FBI case file? Sam opened it and flipped through the pages. His jaw dropped open. This wasn't just any case, this was an open investigation of a serial killer. Worse yet, they had no leads at all. Words kept leaping off the page at him like "torture" and "rape" and "abuse of a corpse". That last one made Sam close the file. He didn't want to see any more.

"We need to find that guy," Don said. Sam wasn't sure if he should hand back the folder. He laid it on the desk instead.

"What do you want me to do?" Sam asked.

Don waived his hand at the file. "You know. We need an equation."

"What sort of equation?"

Don just shrugged. "That's kind of your department, buddy. You know, a find-the-bad-guy equation."

Sam looked down at the folder. A find-the-bad-guy equation? Was he serious? Well, this should be easy. All he had to do was come up with a magical equation that somehow told the FBI who a horrible serial killer was. Never mind that he was fairly sure he didn't have a degree in math, or that Charlie was obviously smarter than him. Sure, no problem. He'd leap out of here lickity-split. Piece of cake. Maybe he could go ahead and cure cancer, too. Just in his spare time, of course.

"I'll, um, I'll take a look," Sam managed.

"Thanks, buddy," Don said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Need a ride home?"

"Sure," Sam agreed eagerly. He didn't know where home was, anyway. And if he left now he wouldn't have to worry about things like teaching more classes. Which freed him up to worry about much bigger things, like how he was going to come up with a find-the-bad-guy equation when he barely remembered his own name.

He shoved the file in his satchel and followed Don out to a large, black SUV in the parking lot. Don opened the back hatch and looked at Sam expectantly. "Didn't you ride your bike today?"

"Oh, right," Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced over at the bike rack. It had at least 10 bikes attached to it, all of them chained with combination locks. Sam decided just to skip it. Charlie could come get his bike after he leaped out. "No," he said. "No bike today."


	2. Chapter 2

From Charlie's learner permit, Sam had learned he was in LA. "Are those the gas prices?" Sam asked, open mouthed. Surely gas couldn't be close to $3 a gallon. It was outrageous.

"I know," Don said. "They're starting to come down a little."

Don pulled up to a huge craftsman style home. Judging from the size of the house, Charlie was doing quite well for himself.

Sam fumbled through the keys on Charlie's chain and finally let them in. They found an older man sitting in the living room doing a crossword puzzle.

"Hey, pop," Don said.

"Hey, pop," Sam echoed. Scratch the part about Charlie doing well for himself. This guy was obviously a pathetic loser with no driver's license who still lived at home with his parents.

The father barely glanced up. "You staying for dinner, Donnie?"

Don settled himself down on the couch. "Yeah."

"It'll be ready in about 20 minutes."

"I'm going upstairs," Sam announced.

He found Charlie's room easily enough. It wasn't nearly as bad as he had feared. No model airplanes, no comic books. It looked more like an extension of his office than anything else.

He walked over to the bureau and looked at Charlie again in the mirror. He ran his hands again through the hair.

"Whenever you're done primping." Sam spun around to see Al. "No, really. I can wait if you want to put in some hot curlers or something."

Sam scowled. "Do you know what the date is?" he demanded.

Al consulted the portable interface to the Quantum Leap computer he always had with him. "September 11, 2006."

"How did I leap into the future?"

Al paused for moment. "You didn't. You leaped into the past. Nine months, to be exact."

"It's June 2007?" Sam said, much too loudly. He lowered the volume of his voice. "I started leaping in 1995."

"I know, Sam," Al said, gravely. Al was usually making jokes, using big gestures. The change in him was striking.

Sam felt like he couldn't breathe. "I've been leaping for over a decade?" he said, barely above a whisper.

"It's been a long time," Al replied softly.

Sam turned and began pacing the room, scrubbing his face with his hands. Twelve years? Sam hated the black hole that was his memory. Had he been married? Had she waited that long? Did he even want her to? Would he ever go back? He put hands on top of his head. He knew that it was pointless to ask the questions out loud. No answer would make him feel any better or make any difference at all. Obviously, this was his life now and the rest of the world would just continue on without him. He suddenly felt very alone.

"What am I here to do?" he asked, trying to push everything else out of his mind.

"Well," Al said, dropping the sullen attitude and suddenly looking more like himself, "you are Charlie Eppes, a math professor at Cal Sci. You often help your brother, Special Agent Don Eppes, solve crimes using mathematical principles." Despite his sudden depression, Sam had to admit that was actually really cool. Sam's opinion of Charlie went up a couple of notches. "You devise an equation which is the key evidence against one Martin Brewster for a series of murders. Martin maintained his innocence and, right after he was convicted, he was murdered in prison. Ziggy says there's an 83.2 chance you're here to find the real killer."

Sam had no idea how he was supposed to pull this one off.

"Charlie!" Don's voice called up. "Dinner's ready."

"That's my cue," Al said. A blue doorway of light appeared and he stepped through, vanishing.

After dinner, all three men settled down to watch TV. The father flipped on the news.

"Come on, pop," Don protested. "Pre-season football."

"It's Charlie's house," the father said. "Let him decide."

Charlie's house? Charlie went up another notch in Sam's book. "I'd like to watch the news," Sam said.

The next hour was like something out of The Twilight Zone. There had been a certain comfort in traveling through the past, in knowing how things were going to turn out. The news became nothing more than re-runs. Sam watched in awe as he learned about a world he was no longer a part of. There was a war on; a war that had obviously been going on for years that Sam knew nothing about. President Bush's son was now serving his second term in office. New Orleans had been devastated by a massive hurricane.

Then they did a special report on the 5-year anniversary of Sept. 11. It was referred to simply by the date. Nothing else was obviously needed. Sam sat there, open mouthed, watching the footage of planes flying into the World Trade Center. He watched the towers fall. When they showed the huge crater where they once stood, a place now referred to simply as Ground Zero, Sam had to run to the bathroom. His entire dinner came up.

He knelt on he floor in front of the toilet. "I can't do this one," he whispered to no one in particular. "Don't make me do this one."

There was banging on the door. "You okay, Charlie?" It was Charlie's father.

"Yeah. I'm coming out," Sam called. He cleaned up the bathroom and himself before opening the door.

"Those images of 9/11. They don't ever get any easier, do they?"

Sam shook his head. "No. They don't. I think I'm going to turn in early."

"Good idea. You rest."

"You okay, Charlie?" Don asked, standing just behind his father. "Cause I'm gonna need that equation. I'm counting on you, buddy."

Sam didn't know what to say to Don. He just climbed the stairs.

"He's sick," he heard Charlie's father say, scolding Don. "He just got sick and you're hounding him about equations? You push him too hard."

Sam closed the door to his room and drowned out the rest of their conversation.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam awoke the next morning with a renewed sense of purpose. He had gone to bed feeling more depressed than he ever had in his life. He had lain in Charlie's bed, and stared at Charlie's ceiling and wondered if he would ever have anything for himself again. If he'd ever have a relationship that lasted more than three days again. If a woman would ever look at him and see him, and not whoever he had leaped into, again.

After two hours, he was absolutely bored with his little pity-party and he had to get up and do something. He started to paw through Charlie's math notes but, although sleep wouldn't come, he was too tired to concentrate on such complex ideas. He found himself, instead, perusing old yearbooks and photo albums. He didn't usually delve so deeply into the lives of his hosts. It seemed disrespectful to go through their personal things, even if he was already wearing their underwear. But this was no ordinary leap and Charlie was no ordinary host.

The father's name was Alan. The mother, Margaret, had been dead for a couple of years. He got all that from a program from her funeral Sam found. Charlie had apparently graduated high school at 13 in the same class as his older brother. Sam couldn't help but think of his own brother, Tom, whom he hadn't seen since he leaped into his unit to save him from dying in Vietnam.

Although Charlie was undoubtedly an accomplished mathematician, Sam found a box full of Don's box scores from playing minor league ball, and almost nothing about his own awards. My God, Sam thought, he must worship his older brother. Well, there was something Sam knew about.

He also found a bunch of photos of a pretty blonde. He gathered that the relationship was over, but the fact that it had happened at all helped bolster Sam's spirits. The world had, indeed, moved on without him. But not in a horrifying, robots taking over the world, science fiction movie way. Just in a normal way. People loved, people broke up, people died, people played baseball. There was comfort in the fact that the human race still functioned in roughly the same manner that he was used to. They just seemed to do it now with cell phones.

Sam had finally crawled into bed, exhausted. When Charlie's alarm blared, Sam had showered, dressed, and headed downstairs.

"Morning," Sam greeted Alan, who was in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Eggs?"

"Sure. Over easy, please." Sam took a seat at the table and pulled the newspaper towards him. More about the war. A story about a little boy who had been reported kidnapped, but who actually had been murdered by his foster family. It never ceased to amaze Sam how much and how little the world changed from leap to leap.

Alan set a plate in front of him. "I thought you liked scrambled."

Sam smiled. "I guess I just felt like over easy."

The phone rang and Alan went to answer it. A few moments later, he handed it to Sam. "It's Don," he said.

"Hey, buddy. You feeling better?" Don asked.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

"Great. Listen, we found another body. So, I'll have Colby bring by the data for you this afternoon when we get it all compiled, okay? I mean, more data means a better equation, right?" Don sounded overly happy and optimistic. Sam could tell he was hoping Charlie wasn't going to refuse to help him.

"Sure. That'll be useful. I, um, I guess, just have him drop them off at my office."

Don sounded absolutely panicked. "Your office? No, no, no. You're teaching today? No, you gotta do your thing. You gotta lock yourself in the garage and refuse to talk to anyone until you get this solved." Charlie sounded like a real barrel of laughs. "Listen, I'll call Amita and get her to have your classes covered. You just concentrate on finding the bad guy. I'm counting on you. Right, buddy?"

Amita? An image of the pretty Indian girl from the day before presented itself in Sam's mind. He wondered what, exactly, her and Charlie's relationship was. Also, Sam realized that Don was very aware of how hard Charlie tried to impress him and wasn't above exploiting it for his own purposes. And Don was also willing to remove any obstacles or distractions from Charlie's way.

"Okay. I'll just concentrate on your case today," Sam said, glad to get out of teaching any classes.

"Great. Call me if you have anything. I gotta go."

Sam hung up the phone and turned to Alan. "I'm going to work in the garage today," he said.

Alan nodded as he hung up the phone. "You're allowed to say no to your brother, you know," he said.

Sam entered the garage tenuously. It looked like yet another version of Charlie's office. It was as if the sheer enormity of Charlie's genius had filled his office, spilled over his bedroom, and, when that became over-full, to the garage. Nestled among the tools and the washing machine were chalkboards covered in the bounty of Charlie's mind.

"Sorry, buddy," Sam muttered, erasing the boards. "Hope you've got this written down somewhere."

He had discovered in Charlie's room a paper that Charlie had given at a math conference about the quantification of the actions of serial felons. Sam sat down on an old couch and began to read. Sam often wondered if he, singularly, had been chosen to leap or if he leapt merely as a consequence of his own actions. But the answer seemed clear at this moment. How many people could understand this paper, much less have the ability to apply it to an actual case? This task was set to him, and him alone.

Several hours later, Sam looked up from the chalkboard where he was making notes to find Al smoking a cigar. "How long have you been there?"

"Not long. I didn't want to bother you. Is that it?" He gestured at the board.

"Well," Sam said, not sure exactly how to explain things, "yeah. I mean, that's Charlie's equation but..."

Al clapped his hands and rubbed them together excitedly. "Good work, Sam, you did it! Now, just plug in the numbers and get ready to leap!"

"It's not that simple," Sam explained, a little bewildered by his friend's reaction. "And why are you so eager anyway?"

Al sighed. "You gotta leap, Sam. This guy in the waiting room is driving us all nuts. He didn't buy the whole 'kidnapped by aliens' story at all. He says our imaging chamber is underpowered. And he wants to re-index Ziggy's database. Gushie is ready to put a muzzle on him!"

Okay. Sam officially decided that he liked Charlie.

"But," Al continued, "he did come up with some good ideas for our holographic algorithm. Am I coming in sharper?"

Sam chuckled. "What are you, a TV program?"

Al considered it for a minute. "Yes. Yes I am." He stuck the cigar in his mouth and turned in a circle for Sam. "Well? How do I look?"

"Great. You're a shoe-in to win the swimsuit competition."

"Sam, I'm being serious! Now take that big beautiful brain of yours and find that bad guy!"

"You know, this isn't exactly as easy as it looks," Sam snapped, getting annoyed. "You have to analyze the data. Do you have any idea how complex this is? It probably took him weeks, maybe even months, to come up with this."

"Two days," Al interjected, consulting the handheld interface to Ziggy that he always carried.

"Two days!" Sam practically yelled.

"Well, not two days," Al corrected himself.

Sam felt a little better. Two days, indeed. Not even Charlie Eppes was that smart.

Al squinted at his interface. "He did it in one day. But he had to re-work it for two hot zones, and that took the second day."

Now Charlie was starting to tick Sam off.

The door opened and Amita entered. She dropped her things on the couch and stared at Sam, hands on her hips. "You are aware that I'm not your assistant anymore, aren't you? I mean, that hasn't escaped your attention?"

Sam had no idea what she was talking about. He shook his head. "No, of course not."

"Then why, exactly, am I getting calls at 7am from your brother telling me to cancel all of your classes?"

"I'm sorry," Sam stammered. He tried to ignore Al, who was circling her, inspecting her from every angle. "He should have called my new assistant. He didn't have her..."

"I thought his name was Fred?" she asked.

"...his number," Sam replied.

"Well, I called Fred and told him you were working from home; I got all your classes covered. And I rescheduled your meeting with Dr. Hicks until Thursday."

Sam smiled. "Thank you."

"No problem," she said, shrugging. She walked over to Sam's work, examining it. Sam got the distinct impression that, unlike Al, she knew what she was looking at. "Why are you revisiting these old equations?"

"I'm working on a case for Don." He wasn't sure how much he could say. Talking about open FBI investigations to someone without the proper clearance seemed like a very bad idea.

She glanced at the file which was lying open on the table. Sam quickly shut it. "Okay," she said, not acting offended by his action. "But it's like you're trying to re-derive them."

"Well, I think there's a flaw."

"A flaw? Charlie, there's no flaw. We tested it on solved cases, remember?"

"I know," Sam lied. "But this equation is pointing us to Martin Brewster. And I think he's innocent."

"Based on what?"

"A hunch," Sam said, never sure how to answer those types of questions.

She rubbed her forehead. "I don't understand. The equation doesn't work like that. It doesn't give you a person. It gives you the probability that the killer lives in a certain area. The hot zone."

Al was messing around with the Ziggy interface again. "The hot zone that Charlie's equation came up with was a huge estate that Brewster's parents owned."

Sam rubbed his hand over his mouth, thinking. "The hot zone was too small," he said.

"What?" Amita asked.

"Um, I said, the hot zone I'm getting is too small."

"That would be a good thing, Charlie," she said, laughing. "Less ground for the FBI to cover. Listen, just give the results to Don and let him have the hunches, okay?"

"Lunch is ready," Alan announced, barging through the door. "Oh, Amita. I didn't know you were here. Are you hungry? It's nothing fancy. It's just tuna fish."

"No, thanks," she said, gathering up her backpack and a few other odds and ends. "I have to get back to campus. I just came to get Charlie's lecture notes. Someone has to teach his classes."

"Help yourself," Sam said, pointing to the satchel.

She retrieved the notes and started to leave. "Nice to see you again," she said as she squeezed past Alan.

"Nice seeing you again, too," he said, smiling. Alan watched her walk to the driveway and turned back to Sam, wiggling his eyebrows. "What were you two talking about?" he asked.

"Math," Sam said flatly.

Alan looked disappointed. "Math is not going to get me grandchildren."


	4. Chapter 4

After lunch, things were substantially quieter. Al had disappeared again and Alan had gone outside to do some yard work. Sam buckled down.

The knock on the door finally broke Sam's concentration. He looked up and saw it was already getting dark. A man in a suit entered. He was maybe early thirties, handsome, short hair, thick neck. "Hey, Charlie," he said.

"Hey, Colby," Sam answered, remembering his conversation with Charlie's brother earlier. "Don said you were going to stop by with the data on the latest victim."

"Yep, here it is." Colby handed Sam another file. "This guy is really getting out of control. I haven't seen anything this bad since the war."

"You were over in Iraq?" Sam asked.

Colby furrowed his brow. "No. Afghanistan. You know that."

"Oh, right," Sam said. Al reappeared near the couch and Sam turned his attention to him. "Afghanistan?" he whispered.

Al toyed with the Ziggy interface for a minute before responding. "You've missed a lot, Sam," was all he said.

"Yeah, Afghanistan," Colby continued. "In war you see things you can't even comprehend. Stuff you just have to put out of your mind and process later."

"I know," Sam said, thinking about the time he had leaped into Magic, a member of his brother's unit in Vietnam.

"You know?" Colby asked, looking a little offended.

Sam suddenly remembered who he was now. Charlie lived in the insulated cocoon of academia, a cocoon Sam himself had crawled into for many years. "I just mean that I understand," he said.

Colby grudgingly seemed to accept that. "Listen, I gotta go. Just call us when you have something," he said, leaving.

"Well?" Al demanded. "Do you have something?"

"No, I don't have anything," Sam hissed. "And, even if I ever do have anything, what makes you think I'm going to come up with a different answer than Charlie did?"

"No me, Sam," Al answered. "Him." He pointed straight up. "God or fate or time or whatever. He's the one who thinks you can save Martin Brewster."

"Yeah, well, he just might be disappointed this time."

Alan stuck his head in. "Come on, Charlie. Take a break. Dinner's ready and Survivor's coming on in a few minutes."

Sam put down the chalk. Food, relaxation, and a fresh start tomorrow sounded like just what he needed. "Sounds great. I'll be there in a minute."

Alan nodded and left.

Al looked horrified. "You're just going to leave all this and go watch television?"

"I need a break."

"What if this guy kills someone between now and then?"

"Does he?"

Al consulted Ziggy and looked deflated by the results. "No. But Sam... this kid. We need to get him out of our hair."

Sam ignored him and went outside, walking to the house. Al followed him, pleading. "He's messing around with your equations, Sam. Your theories!"

"Great," Sam snapped. "Get him to figure out how to get me back." Al didn't seem to have a response to that. "Besides, they're his equations. He wrote most of them."

"It's starting!" Alan called through an open window.

"It's starting," Sam echoed to Al. He turned and went into the warm kitchen. Al opened his blue doorway of light and stepped through.

Sam sat, lounging on the sofa and watching TV with Alan. The show, which seemed almost horrific at first blush, turned out to be quite the chess game played with humans. Sam could see Charlie's attraction to it.

Shortly after it ended, Don called. "Tell me something, buddy. Anything." Don sounded exhausted.

Sam weighed in his head what to do. If fate or God or whatever had a higher purpose for this leap, Sam decided to call its bluff. "I've got a hot zone," he answered.

"That's what I want to hear!" Don said, excitedly.

"It's centered on the Brewster Estate."

"Yeah," Don said, thoughtfully. "Martin Brewster. He's a suspect. I've liked him since the beginning."

Sam suddenly understood what had happened the first time. Don already had Martin in his cross-hairs. Once Charlie's equation confirmed his suspicions, he never looked at anyone else. "Don," Sam said. "I don't think so. I don't think he's the guy."

Don laughed. "Charlie, no offense, but I don't think you're in a position to say something like that. Just stick to the math, okay?"

Sam cringed. Charlie was so easy to rely on. And so easy to dismiss. "Okay, right," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? You did good on this one."

"Yeah, okay. Bye." Sam hung up the phone. He had been here for a day and a half and all he had managed to accomplish was to force things to progress in basically the same way they had the first time. He had to do something. He headed to the door.

"Where are you going?" Alan called after him.

"The garage."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam was staring at Charlie in the mirror as he buttoned his shirt. It was morning. The night before had been a complete waste. He had read the entire file before dozing off on the couch. All he had to show for his troubles was a very stiff back. Alan had left a note that he would be working at a homeless shelter all day and had left Sam with no car. Not that it mattered much since Charlie didn't have a license.

Al appeared. "What's going on, Sam?"

"I'm going to see Don," Sam answered. "I need to call a cab. Where do you suppose the phone books are?"

Al shook his head. "Cell phone." He jabbed his cigar at the night stand. Sam had put it there when he emptied Charlie's pockets the first evening and hadn't thought of it since.

He picked it up and was actually impressed with how simple it was to use. Al peered over his shoulder. "That one. Taxi." Al said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I kind of guessed that."

Once the cab was on its way, Sam grabbed Charlie's wallet and stuffed it in his back pocket. "And the phone," Al said.

"What do I need a phone for?" Sam asked, pocketing it anyway.

"Everyone has a cell phone," Al replied.

"Okay, anything else?"

"Security badge." Al squinted down at a piece of laminated plastic on Charlie's desk. "Top level clearance, I'm impressed." Sam picked it up. "You clip it to your pocket," Al explained.

"Is that it?"

"You look like a million bucks," Al said, smiling.

Sam rolled his eyes and headed outside to meet the car.

Sam found Don in a large meeting room with a group of people Sam presumed were his team. No one seemed to stop Sam or mind his intrusion so this must be what Charlie did pretty regularly.

"Hey, Charlie," Colby said, smiling and went back to consulting with the black man sitting next to him.

Sam opened his mouth to speak. Don cut him off. "What are you wearing?" he demanded.

Sam looked down at his clothes. "What?"

"Where'd you get that jacket?"

"In the closet," Sam said tentatively.

"God, Charlie!" Don exclaimed, annoyed. "I leave my jacket at Dad's house and you just help yourself? How many times do I have to tell you not to mess with my stuff?"

Sam snickered. Apparently little brothers were not allowed to touch their older brothers' things, no matter how old they were. Sam wasn't sure he had ever seen a grown man, an FBI agent no less, turn into a 12 year old boy in front of his eyes before.

"Sorry," Sam answered. "And for the record, it's my house."

"Come on, seriously, take it off." Don was pulling on the coat. Sam allowed him to remove it and lay it over a chair.

The lone female in the room laughed. "Okay, well that was a fun little insight into the relationship of the brothers Eppes. Now, unless you two want to arm wrestle or something?" Colby and the other agent were snickering.

Don looked a little embarrassed. "Did you want something, Charlie?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah. I want to go to the Brewster place. I just feel like we're missing something."

The agents exchanged glances. "Well, Charlie," Don said, "we've been over there all morning. They're executing a search warrant. If there's anything there, we'll find it."

"I know," Sam said. "But I just really want to see it for myself."

Don glanced at the woman who shrugged. "He's got clearance. If he wants to go, let him go." She turned to Sam. "But, Charlie, he's the guy."

Sam just nodded. Don sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay, but not alone. Colby, can you take him?"

"Sure," Colby said, handing his file to the agent next to him. "Come on."

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets as he and Colby walked up to the front of the house. The driveway was crowded with people and vans. They were searching every square inch of this place and they were serious. Sam felt his chest tightening. He had to stop this series of events. He had to halt what he had put into motion.

"Granger!" called a man in an FBI windbreaker. Colby broke stride and crossed to him. Sam followed at his heels. The man held up an evidence bag containing a very large knife. "We think this might be what he used to carve them up."

Al appeared through his blue doorway and stood, observing, and thoughtfully sucking on his cigar.

"You check it for any DNA?" Colby asked.

"We will. But it won't do much good. It looks like it has been washed."

"DNA?" Sam whispered to Al.

"Oh, yeah," Al said. "DNA is the new thing in crime fighting. You can find a hair on the sofa and can tell if the killer ever sat there."

"Yeah, DNA," Colby answered, thinking Sam was talking to him.

Sam just nodded at Colby's confused expression.

"Who else lives here besides Martin Brewster?" Sam hissed.

"Well," Colby and Al answered at the same time. Al fell silent. "There's Martin and his father."

"The father's too old," Al said.

"And the little sister Emily."

"She's a twelve year old girl, Sam," Al said as if Sam had just accused her of something. Sam shot Al a look and then turned back to Colby.

"There's the guy who tutors Emily."

"He fits the profile," Al said.

"And the gardener."

"Him too."

"Would you please shut up?" Sam snapped, getting annoyed at Al's constant interjections.

"What?" Colby said, looking more than a little offended.

"Sorry. I just meant, let's, um, start with the gardener."

"Okay," Colby agreed, looking suspiciously at Sam. Colby led the way towards the equipment shed. Colby was looking less and less thrilled to be around him. Apparently he found the real Charlie much more palatable than Sam's version of Charlie.


	6. Chapter 6

The equipment shed was about the size of a two-car garage. It looked fairly typical with the hand-held tools hanging from racks on the walls. Larger equipment, like the high-end mower, were parked on the dirt floor in the middle. There was a small, dirty window on either side making the place feel small, even with the door wide open.

Well, Sam thought, here I am. If there's something I'm supposed to find, you'd better point me in the right direction.

"Why is Don so sure Martin Brewster is guilty?" Sam asked.

"He's been doing this job a long time," Colby answered.

Al was more forthcoming. "The last victim was here playing tennis on the day she died. Martin was the last person to see her alive."

"Tennis," Sam muttered, trying to find whatever it was God or fate or time was trying to show him.

"Huh?" Colby asked. He had his phone up to his ear, getting ready to make a call.

"Where are the tennis courts?" Sam asked.

Colby glanced around, getting his bearings. Al plugged the question into his hand-held.

Al pointed. "Over there about 500 yards."

"Um, that way," Colby said, pointing in generally the same direction. Al nodded at Colby, pleased that their information matched. Colby turned his back to Sam, talking quietly on his phone.

Sam picked his way past the equipment to the window near where both men had indicated. He peeked out and found the very edge of the courts was visible. If he backed up a few steps, he could see them. The view was unremarkable, just two side by side courts surrounded by a chain-link fence and well-manicured trees.

Sam took another step back trying to see the surrounding area. The ground under his foot suddenly seemed soft and unstable, like rotten wood. He immediately lifted his weight. Why would the shed have a wooden floor? Since when did sheds have basements?

Colby was just snapping his phone shut. "What's up, Charlie?"

"I'm not sure," Sam answered carefully. He replaced his foot, testing the wood. It felt like it was ready to go. Sam stood on it with both feet and bounced his knees. It became more and more unstable.

With a sickening crack, the wood gave way and gravity took over. He heard Colby call Charlie's name. Shards of broken wood grabbed at Sam's sleeves as he fell straight down and then slammed into solid earth. He was dazed for a moment, and then he became aware of pain in his arm. He held it up to examine it. It was scratched and bleeding, but it wasn't serious. His back, which had taken the brunt of the impact, ached.

"You okay, Charlie?" Sam looked up and saw Colby peering into the hole.

"You okay, Sam?" Sam started. Al was standing right next to him. Sam hated it when he did that.

"Yeah," Sam said, answering both of them. He stood up, testing his body. Everything seemed to be functioning normally.

"I'm coming down," Colby announced and lowered himself into the hole. The small penlight he fished out of his pocket penetrated the darkness as he slowly moved it around him in a circle.

The room was less than half the size of the shed and tall enough for Sam to stand comfortably. There was a ladder on the far end. Apparently that was the intended way to get down here. Colby walked over and examined the top with his light. "Trap door. We didn't even see it." He looked around some more. "Look at that," he said, stopping on a stain on the ground. "That might be blood."

Colby pulled out his phone with his free hand but instead of holding it to his ear he began to speak into it like a walkie-talkie. He told the search team where to come. Once he was confident they were on their way, he continued his sweep. There were bags lining some of the walls. Sam didn't want to think about what was in them. "Don't touch anything, Charlie," Colby warned. Sam was quite certain he didn't want to touch anything in this place.

Sam sat in the solarium nursing a beer. His arm and back still ached dully from the fall, but the alcohol was taking care of that problem. Don sat across from him.

"It's kind of funny, Charlie," he said, taking a draw from his own longneck.

"What's that?"

"Well, this case. I mean, here we are. I've worked on dozens of these types of cases and my instincts are usually right on. You're a math genius and, let's face it, you're never wrong. But between us, between all that experience and knowledge and everything, we would have put away the wrong guy. If you hadn't stepped on that rotten board, we wouldn't have found the killer's hideout. One stupid board." He shook his head.

Sam stared at his bottle. Don was right. Sam wasn't sent here because he was the only guy who could figure out Charlie's equation, he was sent here precisely because he couldn't figure it out. It didn't take a genius to fall through a hole in the floor. Sam was back at square one. Why was he the one leaping? Could it be anyone at all? What if Charlie started leaping? Or Al? Would they be just as acceptable as he was? Sam sighed and rubbed his head. He guessed that some things just weren't meant to be.

When he opened his eyes, Al was standing next to him.

"Well, Jonathan Stewart who was the Brewster's gardener for years, is sent to prison on 5 consecutive life sentences. And he's still alive," Al said, reading from his hand-held. He shrugged. "He didn't get jacked like Martin did. I guess he's a little more popular with the prison population."

"So we got him," Sam said, taking a drink.

"Not yet," Don answered, leaning back. "No one has seen or heard from Stewart since the last body was found."

"Don't worry about that," Al said, waving away Don's words with his cigar. "They catch him in two days in Phoenix using a stolen credit card."

"Okay, guys," Alan said, coming in with two steaming bowls. "Beef stew and I've got to go back and get the bread. Dig in."

"I hope we find this guy," Don said.

Sam smiled. "You will."

"How do you know?" Don asked.

"A hunch," Sam shrugged.

Don smiled and laughed. He shook his head and drank. And finally, a familiar sensation enveloped Sam. He was leaping.

Sam was sitting in the open air. There was a loud chink, chink, chink noise coming from underneath him. His first instinct was to stand up, but there was a bar holding him in his seat. Sam realized with horror that he was on a roller coaster. The noise stopped and Sam further realized that they had just crested the hill. He clutched the lap bar with both hands as the bottom fell away.

"Oh boy!" Sam screamed.


End file.
